


Zero Gravity

by orphan_account



Series: City of Angels [1]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Advice, Drinking, FMA03, First Meetings, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mentions of Suicidal Thoughts, Post Conqueror of Shamballa, Sad, ed being ed, ed being sad, life advice, overall saddness, roy being roy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-04
Updated: 2015-04-04
Packaged: 2018-03-21 06:12:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3681003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Well... Forever was too long, anyway."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Zero Gravity

**Author's Note:**

> So...this is actually kind of the third part of what was supposed to be a three part story I never got to write completely ~~because I'm just that popular irl~~. *ahem* I'm hoping to finish the first two parts sometime and post them additionally. You don't have to be famiiar with what was happening in the first two parts in order to fully understand this tjo, so I hope you guys won't mind to much XD

The world spins around him and his knees give way under his weight and he almost falls face-first to the hard, cold, _dirty_ floor and the part of his brain that can still manage a coherent thought tells him he’d better not risk breaking his neck in front of a bunch of strangers who wouldn’t know better than to ignore him.

Edward flings his entire body over the bar, letting his head rest on his folded arms as he closes his eyes – the nauseating stench of sweat and piss and alcohol and _people_ fills his lungs and the effort he needs to put into keeping his last drink down is overwhelming. He’d made it a point not to drunk-puke, partly because it’s an infamy to his genius to stoop down to doing something so disgusting in public, partly because it’s humiliating to bend over in order to empty the content of his stomach for other people to see; but mostly because he remembers the bitter-sweet taste of vomit in his mouth and the horribly painful, _disgusting_ spasms he felt in his abdomen before every blow.

Shortly after he and Alfons met, Alfons’ rocket business took off – despite Ed’s belief in the contrary – and they went out to celebrate. It’s little to say that they had gotten drunk; they’d spent the night awake, curled up on the bathroom floor, taking turns leaning over the toilet and holding back Ed’s hair. The following day they played ‘The Silent Game’ until early in the evening.

The sound of Alfons’ name echoes through his mind; each syllable is dragging down the others, spinning in a never-ending cycle. He feels woozy. Lifting his head up slowly – but the world is still turning too fast – he drags a hand down his face for the obvious-but-subtle-drool-check before tapping a finger on the empty glass before him. He gestures for the waiter to bring another drink and inhales it almost before the guy is even done pouring it. The warmth sliding down the back of his throat and the burning in his chest that follows are met with a satisfied groan. His finger is motioning for another refill even before his brain agrees to the task, but he doesn’t drink it this time; his eyes tarry on the watery surface, watching the liquor-filled glass in dismay.

When the hell had he fallen this far?

For the past four months his life has been slipping from the tips of his fingers, going to pieces and crumbling to nothing before his feet.

For the past four months he’s done nothing but selfishly try to wash away his sorrow, reaching for every and any means necessary and, when all else failed him, resorting to alcohol – a decision that had yet to be proven faulty.

For the past four months he’s felt the memory of Alfons’ death choke him with every reluctant breath.

Edward circles his finger over the edge of the glass absently – the light sound that comes from the touch is like music. He knows that he should be better, or at least be _getting_ better, because, even though his heart and mind are buried six feet under and freezing, he still has Al. Al is here with him – Al is alright now – and Al is _happy_ and that’s all Edward ever wanted - for his little brother to be happy.

They found each other in this new world and tried to make the best of it. The longer he is here in this world – in this life – the more he feels the reality of what he knows is true slipping from his reach. Some nights he is sure he’s losing his mind – perhaps he’s already lost it – and Amestris and Central and Resembool – they’re all just memories of made up places he once called home. The only real thing he can grasp, the only thing keeping him sane and saving him from himself, the only proof that he hadn’t just imagined it and that it wasn’t all just a dream is Al. Al is the anchor that keeps him sane between these two realities.

Edward eyes the drink that is now loosely hanging between the fingers of his spread palm before he downs it and then there’s another drink staring at him from across the bar; he stares back like it’s a contest and like there could actually be a winner. He decides then that it’s time to leave and, again, tries and fails to stand up. His legs are shaky and his skin is crawling with goose bumps and he starts to notice just how cold it is in here and just how stupid he is for not bringing his coat. His ass hits the edge of the bar stool as he falls back into it; he makes a grimace against the pain. The guy whose name tag says ‘Felix’ pushes the too large glass his way with an expectant smile. Edward shrugs – the unenthusiastic head shake he offers in turn surprises them both – and lifts his palms up as if to say he is out of money. Which is true. Felix-the-bartender looks more than slightly disappointed as he turns away from Ed.

“That one’s on me,” the voice that wraps itself around Ed’s ear canal is so distant and alien and so familiar it almost hurts to remember where he’d heard it before. The fear of seeing the face he expects to see falls on him just as he turns his head to look at the kind stranger. The remaining part of Ed’s conscious mind knows that there is _absolutely no way in hell_ that this could _actually be –_ but his eyes had rarely fooled him before and he _really is –_

Ed almost jumps out of his skin – almost screams and cries and punches a whole in the air – almost falls off the fucking planet because his eyes _must_ be fooling him, he must have had one – or a dozen – too many drinks. The ghost from his nightmares is staring at him – _Roy fucking Mustang_ is staring at him, wide-eyed and beautiful in all his bastardly glory. Roy _fucking_ Mustang is looking at him with those black demon eyes – only not, because it can’t possibly be _him._

Edward manages some kind of near death cough-choke sound in place where words were supposed to come out and Felix-the-bartender stares at him like he’s some kind of lab animal. Edward shoots him a dirty look in turn. The man that looks like Roy but can’t really be Roy offers a hand for Edward to shake.

“Raymond Muskett,” he says, “Please, call me Ray if you like.”

Ed feels his head fall down and rise in a nod. Roy-Ray takes a seat and orders his own drink – some old as fuck and probably just as expensive whiskey – and Ed takes the chance to stare him down. His black winter coat is so long it hangs over his knees and falls around his frame but he still fills it nicely. Through the crack in the fabric, where black melts into grey, Edward eyes his waistcoat; like everything else on the man, right down to his fingernails, it looks damn expensive. His white shirt is tucked neatly into black slacks and Ed feels like a hobo next to the other man – his shoes are plain and torn and ugly in comparison to the glossy-looking leather black on the older man’s feet; the pants he wore are no more than ordinary, but they’re damn comfortable and Ed didn’t really think about it when he put them on this morning; his waistcoat, while one of his finer pieces of clothing, is a little worn-out and noticeably cheap. To top it all off, his nice, expensive, _new_ brown coat is unworn and placed somewhere in the back of his closet.

Roy-Ray looks at him from behind his lashes as though he is waiting for something. It takes Ed a moment too long to catch on. “Oh, uh, Ed – err, Edward. Edward Elric. But you can call me Ed if you want to,” he extends his left hand clumsily, then realizes it’s socially unacceptable to offer your _left_ hand – but how the hell is he supposed to offer his _not-hand_ hand?; – and tries to retrieve it, but Roy-Ray already has it clasped in his own. He can all but feel the warmth of the man’s skin radiating against his hand, even though it’s gloved and it’s only Ed’s mind playing tricks on him because maybe he _wants_ to feel it. Their hands remain coupled together for a moment or two more – Ed notices that he is holding his breath, but he can’t seem to release it – and then the imaginary warmth is gone and cold air meets Edward’s fingertips and crawls under his skin at the loss.

“Edward,” Roy-Ray repeats. Ed can almost taste his own name on the stranger’s tongue. “Your name is almost as beautiful as you are,” he feels the heat from his entire body rush to his cheeks while the rest of him goes limp. He works his mouth around words to say but every reply he can think of dies on his tongue because _what the hell do you say to that?_ So instead, he takes his drink in a hand and start sipping on it, and if he’s lucky, he can blame the heat in his cheeks on the alcohol. Roy-Ray looks pleased with this reaction, but Ed can’t really tell because he is too busy staring at anything but the older man. “You speak English,” his voice is observatory, but there’s a spark of question in his undertone. Edward wonders briefly why he is reading so much into this situation.

He hadn’t actually noticed that he’d switched to English – he spent so much time talking only to Alphonse that it must have become a habit. Both Elric brothers found that, while they currently resided in Germany, it was easier to speak English when talking to people who actually understood what they were saying.

For a reason that he can’t quite pin-point, Edward doesn’t like German. Aside from the incredibly vast choice of swear words, the language is nothing but angry syllables with dots and impossible pronunciation.

“So do you. What a small world, huh?” he says before he can think to stop himself. Suddenly scared of chasing the man away with his stupid fucking big mouth, he adds: “I used to live in London.”

Roy-Ray makes a face that Ed can only describe as trying to stop his eyebrows from flying up, but he lifts them anyway.

“What brings you to Germany?” by some miracle, he doesn’t come off as nosy, but somewhere between flirtatious and mildly interested. Everything about this man screams Roy Mustang so loudly that Ed feels sick.

“I uh, I dunno,” he shrugs, keeping his eyes low and away from where he wants to look. It would probably be weird if he openly stares at the man, yet that’s exactly what he wants to do for the rest of his life. “I moved here after my dad died. I guess there was just nothing left for me there,” he expects some sort of reply, but Roy-Ray doesn’t say anything more, he just _watches_ him and all too soon there is silence between them – a silence that isn’t really _there_ because it’s filled with murmur and laughter and chairs scraping against the wooden floor and everything is so loud that Ed thinks he could hear the world turning if he listened hard enough. “What about you?” he asks, just to shut off the other noises. “What brings you here?” the older man flashes him a blinding smile, his hand moving across the bar to be placed over Ed’s.

“Life, mostly,” Edward feels his brow go up. “I have always dreamed of seeing the world, you see. I want to travel and learn and see as much as I possibly can. Life seems so short sometimes and this world is so big, yet so small at once, and I think my days are too numbered to be wasted,” he says and his words echo in Edward’s mind.

_You say this world is not yours; well it is mine and I want to leave proof that I lived in it._

A shiver runs down his spine as this memory, which is much too vivid for the number of drinks he’s had to numb himself, sounds, loud and clear, in his mind. Roy-Ray must have gotten the impression that he is physically cold, which he probably is, because he is holding out his much too long coat for him. Edward shakes his head.

“I insist. I’m warm enough as it is,” Roy-Ray says, standing up to wrap the coat around Edward’s shoulders; it drapes his frame and literally swallows him, but the warmth that encircles his body is so welcomed that he can’t bring himself to decline it.

“Thank you,” he murmurs as he draws the fabric closer around himself. Roy-Ray laughs lightly.

“May I ask where your own coat has been misplaced?”

“I didn’t bring it,” Edward says. He pushes his arms into the sleeves and looks up to see the man staring at him blankly. “Hey, it was warm before,” his tone is obviously _not_ meant to justify him. “I’ve been here all day, anyway. I didn’t really think I’d need it, to be honest.” He realizes a second too late that he reasonably shouldn’t have said he’d been there all day; even to his own ears, he sounds like a drunk.

Roy-Ray doesn’t seem affected with this statement like Edward had expected him to; his lips quirk up in a half-smile that comes off as mocking-but-not-really-mocking. “But it’s _December._ Unless you’re aiming for an awful and, might I add, awfully early death caused by pneumonia I don’t know why you would even _think_ to go out without proper clothing this time of year, no matter how warm it was this morning.” His tone is not as amused as his expression.

“Well we’re all going to die, at least I’m choosing how I go,” Edward tries out a smile – it feels weird on his lips, like it doesn’t belong, like it’s someone else’s smile, but also somehow comforting. When he comes to think of it, this is the first time he’s smiled – _really_ smiled in a very long time. When he thinks about it some more, it isn’t a _real_ smile because it’s been such a long time since he last smiled – years; maybe a lifetime – that his muscles surely atrophied by this time and he is incapable of _actually_ smiling. His companion seems to find his amateurish attempt at preforming this simple, yet overly complicated task endearing. He offers one of his own smiles in turn – and this smile is _Roy’s_ and so familiar, so _seen_ and Edward feels emotions swell up in his throat and he tries to swallow them down.

“I suppose that if you look at it like that it does make sense, but that is such a pessimistic way to view life, don’t you think?”

Edward snorts; of _course_ he would be an optimist, because what could life had thrown at this man to make him anything else? But Edward – Edward has seen first-hand what life really is and what life pretends to be. “I’m not pessimistic – I’m just realistic. Do you think that some lucky individual will get to live forever? Actually, don’t answer that, I’m afraid of what you’ll say,” he laugh-sighs. His voice sounds so ancient, ringing in his ears over and over.

“I do believe that we get to live forever,” Roy-Ray has taken to sipping at his whiskey – or turning his glass over idly in his hand. He looks at Ed with half-lidded eyes as though he is trying to read into his mind. Edward swallows loud enough that he is sure the other man heard it. “If there’s something that gets me going through life, it’s the thought of something better waiting for me after it. Don’t tell me you’re a non-believer, Edward. You seem smarter than that.”

“I do believe – I believe in science. I believe that I breathe in oxygen and breathe out carbon dioxide; I believe that the Earth is round and that the Sun is the center of our galaxy and that this galaxy is only one of numberless more in the Universe; I believe that the sun will come up tomorrow and that I will wake up with a splitting headache that will accompany me throughout most of the day; I _do_ believe in purgatory – I _lived_ there – but you can’t call me stupid for refusing to believe in something I can’t see or touch and that has proven itself nonexistent over and over and over, and if there really _is_ a _God_ , He’s a bastard and he’ll have to beg my forgiveness.”

“Hmm,” is Roy-Ray’s only reply. He takes a long swig from his drink and shakes it a bit. “I wonder what was so awful that stripped you off your faith. Or were these always your beliefs?”

Edward’s finger is tracing an imaginary circle across the bar; he lifts the finger to his eyes and makes a grimace at the dust trace. “My mother was actually very religious,” he says. “My father, on the other hand, had always been a man of science. Now that I think about it, I remind myself of him a lot. I never really thought too much about whether or not there is anything beyond – I’m a scientist, if I can’t explain something or even begin to understand it, it must not be real.” He smiles faintly and looks up at Roy-Ray; the man is watching him with a mixture of interest and admiration swimming in his eyes. “We’re vain like that, we scientists. I think I actually have a god-complex myself; reminds me of someone I used to know.”

“I don’t mean to force my beliefs upon you. I merely find comfort in my faith. I suppose some people don’t want to or can’t understand it, but I try to keep an open mind towards these things. We can’t all believe in all the same things, after all.” his smile doesn’t falter, even as he looks Ed directly in the eye. Edward would have expected to stumble upon judgmental glares and bible quotations when faced with a firm believer like Roy-Ray appeared to be, but the man actually acknowledges his opinion, even if it differs from his own. “I think that, if you find some kind of peace in believing in the things you believe in, you are entitled to it. Besides, who am I, a mere human like any other, to judge you? Perhaps, when the time comes, I will find that I was the one in the wrong.”

Edward laughs – it sounds bitter and sick, like breaking glass. “Don’t go straying off your righteous path now, old man,” Roy-Ray’s eyebrows fly up and he looks like he is fighting against laughing and punching a whole in Edward’s face at the same time. “Oh, shit, I didn’t mean that. Sorry.” He feels himself blushing.

“It’s quite alright,” the man says, his look softening some. “I imagine you have quite the grudge against any kind of authority, am I correct?”

“Maybe,” Edward mumbles. He suddenly feels really small and really young.

“While I don’t like to think myself _old,_ I must admit that I’m not exactly in my prime anymore, either.”

“Oh come on,” Edward shakes his hand; the coat sleeve that’s hanging around his arm flaps around in the space between them. “You’re not _that_ old – I didn’t even mean it like that. You can’t be over thirty, right? That’s not old at all. It’s just that you really remind me of someone who was sort of like a father figure to me, so I – uh – sorry – look, I didn’t mean to offend you.” His breath catches in his throat and he chokes on it.

“You flatter me, Edward Elric.” Roy-Ray says. He crosses his legs – fucking _shit_ , cant someone even _be_ so sophisticated and amazing and beautiful and not explode? – and laces his fingers together under his chin. “May I ask how old _you_ are?” his brow quirks up in interest.

Edward snorts – and not in the cute way, either. “Only if I can ask you the same thing.” At that, the older man echoes Edward’s noise.

“Alright then,” he says with a grin.

“I’m eighteen,” Edward says. His expectations of the man’s reaction are a far cry from reality. Roy-Ray arches his brow so high Edward thinks he might cramp up; the look on his face is almost…lustful.

“ _Really?_ ” he doesn’t seem unfazed by Edward’s answer, but not exactly repulsed either and Edward is once again caught off guard. “I’m sorry; it’s just – you don’t look eighteen.”

Ed’s mouth quivers; he smirks. “Are you saying I look _younger_?”

“Not at all. Quite the contrary, actually, I was under the impression that you were much older. Well not _much_ older, but still not quite as young.”

“This is the first time someone thought I looked older than I am,” he says. “People usually assume I’m underage or something. I’ve more than once been accused of being out past curfew and shit because someone thought I was fifteen.” Roy-Ray laughs at this. His face falls back into a light smile and his eyes find Edward’s again after a moment.

“How old would you say I am, then?” he asks. Edward laughs half-heartedly.

“Hah. No, there’s no way I’m playing that game,” he announces decisively.

“I promise I won’t be offended,” Roy-Ray says, crossing his hand over his chest like he is reciting an oath. Ed weighs his options for a moment, his eyes flying between the man’s hand and his face.

“Twenty eight,” he says, only because he knows it isn’t true. Roy-Ray narrows his eyes at him.

“You _lie_ ,” the accusation is meant to be droll, and Ed takes it as such.

If he is being completely honest, the man _does_ look younger than the age Ed knows he is. His face is clean and soft-looking with no age marks in sight. His hair is still pitch black like it was the day they met in another world, and it would probably remain such for years to come. His smile is so youthful and beautiful and undimmed with horrors he hasn’t seen and everything about him radiates such power and his eyes are so bright still, and untainted by wrongdoings and so _full of life;_ and nothing like the old man’s eyes that so often stared at Ed from Roy Mustang’s face.

“No, I mean it,” he lets his eyes fall on the man’s face as a devilish grin spreads across his lips. “Why? Are you _older_?”

“I’m afraid so,” Roy-Ray sighs in exaggeration. “I’m thirty three, if you’ll believe it.”

“I’ll believe it,” Ed replies, his grin slipping into a smile. His mind drifts off into a distant memory of a small child thinking how ridiculous it is that a man who is supposed to be his superior officer looks so young and inexperienced, but sounds so old and wise. “Are you traveling right now?” he asks, lifting his gaze. Roy-Ray watches him, but doesn’t respond. “You said that you want to see the world, right? Do you plan to travel across the globe, or is that just wishful thinking?”

“Ah,” the man breathes, setting his glass on the counter and pushing it back and forth between his fingers. “I’ve peregrinated a considerable amount of countries by now. I’m from Canberra; it’s really a beautiful city, one of the most beautiful I’ve ever been to, and I’m not just saying that,” he says. “I consider it a blessing that I actually have a job that allows me the luxury of travel.”

“What is it that you do?” Edward knew all too well the pain of feeling trapped – he had felt it countless times before and it was why he insisted on travel so much. He, like the man beside him, was knowledge-hungry and inquisitive about the world and its secrets.

“I’m a writer,” he replies. His lips curve into a smile again; Edward admires the ease with which the man pulls his mouth up. “And the world is my story,” he looks over at the younger man –good _God_ he was almost a boy, still – and stares him down. “Have you ever travelled just for the sake of it, Edward?”

It takes Ed a moment to realize that he is actually expected to give a reply. “No,” it shouldn’t be surprising, honestly, because who the fuck is lucky enough to travel ‘just for the sake of it’? Apparently there are some people.

“You should, it’s an amazing experience.”

“I’ve only ever travelled because I had to,” Roy-Ray gives him a look that pleads for further elaboration, but Edward ignores it. “I had shit to do and I forced myself into oft and lengthy travels because of it. As a kid I barely spent any amount of time at home.” Roy-Ray’s eyes sparkle with interest; he looks like he would give an arm and a leg for Ed to continue his story. _How fucking convenient._

“I would like to show you the world,” the statement is so unexpected and _sudden –_ Edward might even say it’s inappropriate – but it somehow feels like the right thing to say. And Edward feels oddly comfortable imagining a scenario in which he travels across countries with this man. “If you would let me.”

 _I would let you take me to Hell if that’s what it takes to stay with you,_ he thinks. “Where are you going?” he asks.

“The day after tomorrow I’ll be heading for Paris – it’s a beautiful city, they say, ‘The city of love’ – after that, London, maybe, and then wherever my feet decide to carry me.”

His words are so comforting in Ed’s ears, like he is reassuring him, and he can’t help but want to go – even though it’s stupid and even though he probably shouldn’t. “I shouldn’t want to go with you; I’ve only just met you. Why do I want to go with you?” he sounds helpless somehow, like a pleading child, wanting an explanation to a question he doesn’t know how to ask.

“I think it has less to do with _me_ and more with your want to learn and see whatever you might find out there.”

Edward pretends to think about it – _pretends_ because he knows that he couldn’t say ‘no’ even if he wanted to – and he knows that Al is going to have his head for this – but maybe not because Al would understand, and at this point he can’t even bring himself to try and stop the smile that threatens to spread in the edge of his mouth.

“Yeah, I guess so.” he says, because, really – what’s the worst that could happen?

 

* * *

 

Edward wills his legs to follow the leaf-showered path; the colors that he can’t discern in the darkness burn his eyes and threaten to increase the already mind-numbing headache. The frosty wind that blows against his hair almost doesn’t bother him since he is warm enough to ignore it – because Raymond Muskett’s too-long and equally warm coat is still wrapped tightly around his shoulders; because he would _return_ it. The thought that he will actually _get to return_ the coat brings a soft smile to his cracked lips and a warm, twisting feeling in his stomach.

His steps slow down and he comes to a halt earlier than he’d hoped and he averts his gaze to anywhere but straight ahead – even though he can’t _see_ anything but blurred shapes and sinister shadows, and the cursive letters that are carved deep into the stone are burning a hole in his forehead. He breathes out and watches as the fog evaporates into thin air before exhaling again. Then, when the cold has already crawled through his glove and claimed his fingertips, he forces a quick glance at the headstone – instead of snapping his eyes away the second he laid them on those letters, he lingers, taking them in with a bitter, sinking pang in his chest. His next breath catches somewhere on its way through his lungs and he chokes on it and forces it out in a sob. He feels his right leg going numb and for the reason that he knows he can’t hold his unsteady weight on the prosthetic, he drops to his knees and settles on the damp ground.

“I kind of suck at this,” he whispers to the wind. A strange sense of déjà vu falls over him.

His index finger traces along the letter lines; it’s flat and it’s curved and it’s nothing where there should be frigidness against his finger. He takes off his glove – the left one – and flattens his palm across the surface, caressing it and dragging his hand down almost all the way to the bottom. He tries to ignore the harsh, skin-biting cold and his hand soon goes numb under it and it’s so cold that it’s almost warm.

“I wish – I wish you were here right now. I have _so much_ I want to –“ He allows his voice to drift off instead of breaking – because if his voice breaks, he will go along with it, and that’s not something he wants to do. “I saw Roy today; that colonel guy I told you about. He was such a fucking charmer, I couldn’t even believe it. I thought I might pass out from lack of oxygen; I must have been holding my breath the whole time,” he wipes at his nose with his sleeve, then rubs the fabric against his face to try and warm himself up a little. He can feel his pants growing wetter on the ground. “This is his coat, you know,” he says, flapping his arms about himself as though to show it off. “He let me have it ‘cause I forgot mine but I have to give it back so we’ll prob’ly see each other again. That’s – that’s actually what I came here to tell you; I think I wanna go with him. I don’t wanna be here anymore because you’re not here and I’m not sure how much longer I can go without – “ He wants to say _giving up,_ but he holds the words in.

The tears that have managed their way over the edge of his eyes are burning a chilly path across his face. Edward reaches up to wipe them away – not because it’s too cold to let them be or because he doesn’t want to let them fall all the way from his chin, but because he doesn’t want Alfons to see them. A fraction of his subconsciousness wonders how drunk he really is.

“He promised to take me to New York,” he continues, despite the lump in his throat and despite having nothing else to say, and despite the whispering voice in his head telling him how crazy he is. “I want to go and see my skyscraper,” _his_ skyscraper being the one someone else had built, no doubt long before he was even born, and that was so tall he achieved to convince himself he would, without question, be able to find his way back home if he climbed to the top. Maybe it’s just his intoxicated mind pushing him further into the idea, but Ed feels a thrill of excitement at the thought.

“I think – and call me crazy; I know you will – that I might be able to go home after it. There’s this – _feeling_ that I just can’t shake and it’s a _good_ feeling, and I don’t know if it’s because I’m drunk or crazy or because that stupid bastard has me counting my blessings right now,” his voice travels the distance to his ears and echoes in the empty after midnight air. “I know you probably – _God_ I don’t want to _go_ , but I can’t stay here; it’s driving me crazy inasmuch as it’s almost like you’re _here_ and then I look around and there’s only emptiness and nothing in your place. I can feel myself wasting away, Alfons, and I know I’m not gonna get any better if I stay.

“This town – this whole _world –_ it’s like a fucking purgatory and no matter what I do or where I run I can’t get away from it. I keep dreaming and hoping and _waiting_ for something to change but it’s just one dead-end street after another – and I’m too close to the edge. So I just need to take a step back and think about _me_ for once,” he is standing now; the wetness of his clothes is freezing his skin. He looks down at the headstone – it’s glaring daggers at him and it’s so hard to do this, but he knows it’s the right thing to do. “I have to go now. I may come back, one day, and I’ll tell you…I – I’ll be back, okay?”

His freezing hand trembles – the fingers he lost feeling in some time ago are starting to ache again. Edward feels a hot tear sliding across his cold cheek and he lets it fall because it’s alright – or it would be. His breath shudders and his words refuse to sound and the internal screaming in his head is so _loud_ he thinks he might explode.

“Ich liebe dich – für immer jetzt,” he whispers – to Alfons – to nothing – and if his voice trembles and his eyes sting with pain, well, that’s alright – or it would be.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are love ♥


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